Solipsism
by Dyslexic Angel
Summary: The tendency to believe that nothing is real.  Some dreams were never meant to be remembered on waking, and some sleepers were never meant to wake at all.  When one such awakes, he finds a world now a halfmeasure out of step... some things never change.
1. Prolouge: Icarus

_Nature abhors a vacuum. "Empty" is not a natural state for any void that can easily be filled. And if nature senses a void, sooner or later _something_ will fill it. When Edwaudo Heinriech died on his own side of the gate, it left a void that was, in the natural order of things, filled in all but instantly. However, when Edward Elric left his own world for the second time, with no way to return, he left a void of his own... and nature filled the gap._

He awoke on a stone floor, cold, hard, and covered with debris. Groaning softly, the figure levered himself up into a half-sitting position and glanced around through long blond hair that was apparently his. He tucked the loose strands behind his ears, absently noticing that it was coarse but clean and untangled. He seemed to be... in a ruin of some sort, though not much was left. Charred earthen walls rose a good eight feet above his head, a few scorched-looking pylons sticking up like shark's teeth around the edges. A house, or a church, he guessed, long since burned out if the accumulation of leaves and mud beneath him was anything to go by. Now why was he lying in a ruin...?

He didn't remember, he realized. It should have been surprising, but somehow the only feeling it inspired was a cold sort of dread, listing rapidly towards fear. It didn't require memories to know that waking up without them wasn't a good sign. He pushed himself to his knees, then his feet, wincing slightly at the soreness in muscles unused for god alone knows how long. Thinking about it, he didn't remember _anything._ Not names, not faces, not where on earth he was or where on earth he needed to be.

Well.

Stretching his arms above his head, he let out a long breath of air in something that was almost a sigh, then drew in another. It was cold and sharp and tasted of the very beginning of spring; flowers and herbs and the faint scent of ice and pine borne on wind from the north. The scent was so new, so beautiful, he savored that lungful, and another, and another before letting his eyes slide open again and turning his mind to the problem of escape. The basement walls were just a little too high to climb easily... but they had been lined with brick, and enough had slid out of the wall to make risky hand and toe holds. Still, not the best option.

Turning slowly, the young man surveyed the room with surprising good cheer. The situation was at least, not immediately dire, and the sun was pleasant on his skin. The air was crisp and cool and moist, and he found himself wearing something very like a smile. Closer inspection of the walls showed where a stair had been, before... only a few charred boards remained, the scraps of a carved banister rail. For the first time I wondered what the house had looked like; it had probably been very pretty, if that last sample of ruined carving was anything to go by. Snatches of something, memory? Dream? Floated through my mind. A simple wooden table and a vase full of flowers; chipped flower china and a woman's smiling face... something about the memory stung, though, and he didn't fight when it drifted out of focus again.

The stairs were clearly out; holes in the wall it was. Picking a place where a dozen bricks were missing, he slipped his toes into the slot. They were bare, he noted wryly. He was wearing a loose tank-top, black leather pants, and his toes were cold. Quick as a whisper, the young man was up the wall and standing in rich black mud in which flowers were already starting to push through. Whoever he was knelt down to examine them, and heard his breath escape in an audible gasp as waves of _something_ crashed over him.

It was called firefly grass, he recalled-- long thick strands scattered with flowers shaped like tiny stars, little stars you could hold on your hand and wish on. Tears pricked at the corner of his eyes and he swallowed them back fiercely, though he couldn't say why to either. He rose sharply, abruptly, and began to walk, picking a direction completely at random. The golden-haired man walked down the path in the early spring sunshine, and let the garden gate swing shut behind him.

"Ed! Edward!" The voice was female, shouting and laughing behind him. Instinctively, the young man with no name turned to the source of the calling. A woman was running towards him, gray-shot blond hair making a banner behind her. Before he could react, she reached him—and threw her arms around him in a suffocating hug. "Edward. You were gone so long." He watched her, frozen, not sure how to react. Edward could be his name. But how was he to react to this... stranger? The odd woman looked up, and read the pure non-comprehension on his face. Slowly, she withdrew, and looked him over with a care that seemed strangely at odds with her haphazard greeting.

"I'm sorry. Who is that?" He surprised them both by speaking; his voice was a mellow tenor, and his phrasing formal. The woman looked down and blushed, and he took the opportunity to examine her more closely. She was not tall-- a little below average hight, and with a lean, wiry build that spoke of hard physical labor most of her adult life, as did tanned, weatherbeaten skin. She had pale blond hair streaked liberally with gray, but crow's feet around her sparkling blue eyes were her only other concession to time. All in all, she looked to be in her early forties or thereabouts. Right now she was blushing like a young girl, fierce blue eyes clouded and narrowed in something very like pain. The expression didn't suit her at all, made her seem older.

"I'm sorry." She said, not answering the question. "I mistook you for someone else." She looked down at her feet, holding one hand to her mouth in embarrassment, and the young man felt suddenly that something about her seemed very wrong. Images flashed through his mind again, a young blond woman laughing... Blinking sharply, the man with no memory acted on impulse. Long, slender fingers reached out, tucked themselves under her chin, and gently lifted her face up to look at him.

"No harm, no foul." He wasn't sure where the words came from, but they felt right. The tone was to formal, but the words were familiar. "He must have been someone very special to you." The young man watched the stranger carefully for her reaction, and felt a pang of relief at her odd half-smile.

"He was like a brother." She said, throwing her shoulders and drawing up to her full hight so his fingers fell away. "You look very much like him." The tone was almost wistful, but contained a firm energy that seemed to suit the woman much better. Then she jumped, as though remembering something, and blushed again. "Where are my manners? I'm Winry Rockbell." She held out one fine-boned hand.

The man with no memory responded instinctively, holding out his own hand—drawing it back quickly when he realized it was the wrong one, the left. By the time he'd held out the proper hand, she'd traded as well, and she chuckled softly. "Ed always did that too." She flashed him a bright grin that made her seem twenty years younger. The blond-haired girl drifted through his mind again, but the image was gone before he could pin anything down. "So what's your name, anyway? We don't get many travelers through here."

The golden-eyed stranger pulled himself up to his full, though not considerable height, drew a deep breath—

"I don't know." he answered.

AN: So. Despite the lack of direct idea theft, I owe several attributions for this fic. The rest of this paragraph is shout-outs, and you can skip it if you like, but I'd prefer you check out the brilliant authors and artists who inspired this. First, to BinaryAlchemist, for her fic Fifty Trips Around the Sun, which reminded me why I love the series. Second, to NumiNami for her utterly amazing Pride!Ed drawings.

I have no idea if this fanfiction will be continued. If you review, the odds are a LOT higher. Constructive critism welcomed, frankly, even just saying "I read it." would be apreciated. Hopefully, I'll see you next chapter.


	2. A Saint on his Hearthstone: Hera

Winry stared a the man for a long, hard moment in shock and disbelief. "You don't... know?" she whispered, seeking assurance rather than challenging. The stranger shook his head, golden tresses flying, and she fought back to some measure of composure. Winry had seen enough in her life to make her quite difficult to surprise; but this, nothing could have prepared her for this strange man who looked so much like Edward Elric had, the last time she had seen him, twenty-five years ago almost to the day. _In fact,_ the treacherous voice of hope rose up again and whispered, _he could BE Edward Elric. He certainly doesn't remember otherwise. _Winry banished the thought forcefully. It had been far too long for him to stand there looking exactly the same. Whoever this was, he deserved better than to have to deal with her ghosts. "Why don't you come to my house and have tea? It's just a little ways down the road, and we can get you sorted out." She gave him a smile that hopefully didn't seem too forced, and gestured in the direction of the small, two-story farm house that had been home to her her entire life.

"I would like that." the man replied, still speaking slowly and formally. "I would like that very much." The second half seemed to be spoken as much to himself as her, in an almost questioning tone. However, he showed no inclination to move, so Winry turned and gestured him to follow. He did so, with no comment at all and an oddly distant expression._ Perhaps not that odd. It must be so disorienting, to not remember anything..._

"Not really." The stranger replied, and it was only then she realized she'd muttered the thought softly. "It's... odd." She glanced over one shoulder and caught him looking at the sky, as though reading something she couldn't see. "On the other hand, I don't remember any reason to feel alarmed." There didn't seem to be any reply to that, so she didn't make one. Still, hearing more of his voice, she was reminded forcefully of Ed. Not that Edward would ever have spoken so softly, or politely... still, memory kept trying to superimpose a red coat on that figure, braided hair and a cheeky smile or a thunderous frown. Winry slipped in the screen door of the house with something vaguely like relief, and turned to put the kettle on for tea.

Waiting for the water to boil, she took a good long look at the young man who had taken a seat at the battered wooden table. Looking closely, she could clearly see the differences—but many of them could have been as much a product of time as anything else, though no more than a few years. He was taller than Edward, the blond hair a few shades darker, and in possession of all four of his natural limbs. That much was apparent from the flesh arms bared by his shirt, and the flesh toes poking out of the cuffs of slightly-too-long black leather pants. It hadn't hurt, mistaking him, that she had seen Ed in exactly those clothes quite often—though Edward had usually worn heavy boots, even in the house, in a fruitless attempt to muffle the harsher footfall of automail. Tattoos wound down his right arm from collarbone to finger-tip in flowing scarlet, eerily reminiscent of Scar. An odd seal was branded in the same red on his left shoulder, and something about it sent danger signals up from memory. Still, something about his face was at once very familiar and startlingly, strikingly different, and she couldn't quite put her finger on what. _The expression_, Winry finally decided. Edward had never worn that look of utterly _passive_ serenity; he was always alive, always moving and tense. He laughed; he cried; he never felt _nothing_, never showed the calm of this nameless stranger who seemed so fascinated with the scarred wooden surface of the table. _Other than the age and tattoos, he could BE Ed..._

"Someone bled here." He looked up, pointing to one of many odd stains on the old wood. Winry nodded, not terribly surprised.

"I'm the closest thing to a doctor this town has." She commented, a little wryly. "People tend to come to see me in pieces. Honestly, I've come to regard anything not actively life threatening as something of a social call." Though she would never admit it, Winry was lonely. Since she had buried her grandmother, the house had been achingly empty, and Winry had never had the heart to so much as buy another pet to take the spot Den had left vacant. It felt too much like trying to replace the irreplaceable; too much like trying to replace Gran.

"You're a doctor?" The young man asked, showing more interest in that than in anything she'd said so far. She cast her eyes down at her hands, feeling more shy about her profession than she had in years.

"I'm an automail surgeon, mostly." Seeing his puzzled look, she added, "prosthetic limbs. I make them and... attach them." Sometimes there was no real way to be coy about surgery, and it was only a matter of least upsetting way to put something. The nameless boy looked fascinated.

"do you have a piece of paper, and something to write with?" He asked. She nodded, surprised.

"Sure." grabbing a blank pad from the kitchen sideboard and a pencil, she placed them on the table. He began to sketch, quickly. "I need something to call you." She mused aloud.

"Whatever you pick is fine with me." The blond never looked up from his paper, and there was nothing artificial in his tone. He seemed to genuinely not care.

"I think..." she thought for a moment, _knowing_ this was a bad idea, but unable to stop herself— "I think I'll call you Edward."

Edward. Very well, it was a name. Just a name, like any other... it shouldn't seem important, but it did somehow. Perhaps it was the way she said it, sharp and metallic and like it meant something.

"Edward... Isn't that who you mistook me for?" He kept his tone carefully neutral, worried she would take it as an accusation. She nodded, and opened her mouth to reply; the whistling of the tea kettle split the air, and whatever words she would have spoken were lost as she bustled about, pouring tea in two chipped and battered mugs, one plain and light green, the other white with a pattern of irises on it. When both had brewed and sat steaming on the table, Winry took a seat across the table and looked at him over her crossed arms.

"What did you want the paper for?" She asked, and Edward had the feeling she had not forgotten his earlier question. Still, the subject obviously made her uncomfortable, so he was content to let it slide for now. He took the paper he had been sketching on and turned it, so she could see what he had drawn.

"Do you recognize this?" he asked. Apparently so, from her faint gasp. Her expression was half shocked, half pleased, and she recovered quickly as though she had, on some level, expected it.

"Do you remember this?" She asked, though the question was addressed as much to the paper as to him. She was studying it so carefully, so intently, as though it would escape if she looked away... amused by the mental image, Edward took a moment to answer.

"In a way. When you mentioned automail, this is the image that went through my mind." He answered. He didn't mention what had accompanied it, the reek of blood and antiseptics and a fog of pain. It didn't make sense, anyway; he clearly had all his limbs, so how could he remember automail surgery? Winry looked up at him, her gaze intense.

"This is important. Where do you know this from? Can you remember?" Edward slowly shook his head, uncertain as to why it would matter and frustrated that he didn't know more. Perhaps just glimpses were worse than nothing at all. "You see," Winry continued, a little desperate as though his head shake had been refusal to answer rather than an answer itself, "I designed this piece of automail. And only one piece with this design was ever made." Edward was starting to feel decidedly lost, and a little bit frustrated. So what if there was only one? What did it matter?

"I'm sorry. I truly don't remember where I saw it." Something in his curt tone made her blink as though startled, then look apologetic.

"I'm sorry too, I didn't mean to press you. It's just..." she looked away, her expression wistful and a bit sad. "...the person who I made that arm for was a very dear friend, one I haven't seen in a long, long time." Now Edward was certain she was talking about the person she'd mistaken him for. He took a long, slow sip of tea, savoring the warring sweetness and bitterness. To ask or not to ask...?

"What was he like?" Curiosity killed the cat; Edward crossed his fingers under the table and then wondered why he had done so. Still, he was very curious to hear about the man he had been named for. Winry's expression grew sad, then determinately light.

"He was one of the bravest people I ever knew, and in a lot of ways, the kindest." She shook her head earnestly. "He wasn't really gentle; I'm not sure he knew how to be, he'd had such a hard life. But you'd never meet anyone with a bigger heart." She toyed with her spoon, idly uncomfortable.

"He sounds like a good man." Edward said, after the silence had stretched on almost long enough to be awkward. The phrasing wasn't quite right, but the way Winry spoke made Edward-- the original one—seem like he _had_ been a good man, or something very close. Hard shoes to fill, that. Without memory of kindness, how was one to learn to be kind? All of a sudden Edward felt like his new name was more than a bit too big for him.

"He was a good man." Winry sighed, then her expression changed to one of suppressed mirth. "Not that you could ever get him to admit it. And if you called him short, you'd never believe it either!" She laughed, but Edward could hear the pain in it, dulled by long years. He stood, the scraping of his chair loud in the small kitchen.

"Well, thank you for the tea, Miss Rockbell. And the name." He bowed shallowly, hair falling into his eyes. "I feel as though I ought to be going now." When he straightened up, she was eying him with something close to amusement.

"Well, you may not _be_ him, but you certainly have Ed's case of wanderlust." She grinned. "I take it you don't know where you're going?" Edward offered her a careful half-smile, not sure what to make of the abbreviation of his name.

"Not a clue." The words were light, carefree, and Edward realized at once that it didn't bother him at all. Perhaps Winry was right about wanderlust. She returned his smile, though hers was broader.

"Wait one sec. The weather still isn't all that warm, and I don't want to see you back here in a week because you've caught your death." She whisked off into the other end of the house, and Edward settled himself back in to wait. It was only a few moments before she returned, carrying something made of red cloth. Winry tossed it at him, and he plucked it out of the air without thinking.

"Here. This was his, it should suit you. You're the same build, same coloration." She smiled again, again with that edge of sadness. "I would try to persuade you to stay a while, but it wouldn't work, would it?" They both knew it wasn't really a question; her gaze was far too knowing. He nodded anyway. Before he could react, she was around the table and had caught him up in a bone-crushing hug. "I don't _care _if you're him or not. Be careful, and come back soon." When she pulled away, tears made her eyes shimmer but did not roll down her cheeks.

"Thank you." He said again, awkwardly, and they both knew it wasn't only for the jacket, or even the invitation. As the screen door banged shut behind him, Edward slipped the coat over his shoulders and enjoyed the new feeling of warmth, physical and not. Pushing the conversation to the back of his mind, he set an easy pace, past the gate with a brief glance back at the white house and the woman in the doorway. It was a bright spring day, and the road was calling.

AN: Responses have been overwhelming, and this fic has grabbed my mind and squeezed. Be warned, though, I have no clue where it's going and only the vaugest sense of how it's going to get there. Thanks to everyone who reviewed, it makes the writing so much easier knowing it will be read.

If you're just joining me this chapter, welcome. As always, reviews are much-needed. Encouragment is great, but so is constructive critism! Frankly, even if you're just saying hello, please review.


	3. Railroads of the Mind: Charon

He wasn't certain how long he walked—time seemed to have very little meaning right at the moment. Thinking back, he tried to remember when it was he'd woken in that basement. The sun had been a little more than a hand span above the horizon, he decided. Now it was more than twice that, and some of the morning chill was beginning to burn off. The sun felt nice on his back, through the soft red of his new coat (though it was far too worn for him to have been it's first owner) and he smiled to himself. A coat, a name... and a place to return to. It was unfamiliar, that feeling, not dogged by ghosts and undeniably pleasant.

It was odd, he mused as he walked. Why _had_ he woken up, alone, in the basement of a place that had clearly been wrecked for a very long time? At the time, it had seemed perfectly ordinary; he had been reacting, not thinking, something that probably wasn't a very good idea considering his current state. However, his first current experience with humanity had been a good one. Winry had been so kind, but there had always been that oddness about her, as though she was looking at him and seeing someone else. Perhaps she was seeing him, whoever he had been before his memories were lost? He-- _Edward_, he reminded himself forcefully, doubted it. If she had known who he was, wouldn't she have told him? Her reactions didn't quite fit with that scenario. Either way, a part of him wondered idly if everyone he met would be so kind. It seemed unlikely; with no direct memory of betrayal, Edward nonetheless had no doubt it was more normal than Winry's kindness. It seemed foolish now, to have been so trusting of her, even if that trust had not proven to be misplaced.

Edward was dragged out of his thoughts by a growing pain in his feet. Picking one up, he examined the bare sole and found it beginning to blister, already littered with minor cuts and caked with dirt.

"Ouch." he said, experimentally. And then, "Ouch!" honestly and intensely, as a careful touch stung one of the cuts. "Well." He said to the open air, putting his foot back into the dirt of the road with a slight wince, "Clearly I'm going to need to find some place to get shoes." Edward frowned, looking around him. He hadn't been paying attention as he walked, and the only things that met his searching gaze now were acres and acres of rolling green grass, broken by the occasional tree or sheep. No people, however, or any sign of human habitation other than the road he was on and the crude wooden fence running along the left side of it. Very well, then.

Edward started walking again, carefully ignoring his feet. It wasn't that hard; the day was almost impossibly pleasant, the road fairly smooth. He found himself speaking as he walked, talking too... himself? Talking, at any rate. "I wonder where the nearest place to get shoes is. Maybe I should have asked Miss Winry. Then again, I don't exactly have any money." He grimaced briefly, not sure why he would remember needing such a thing, and not remember needing shoes until his feet had started to hurt. "I think my mind is getting clearer, it's like waking up for real. I don't think I ever was a morning person." He gestured wildly, incoherent. "It's so weird, Al. The more I wake up, none of it makes sense."

Edward halted suddenly, thinking over what he had just said. "Al...?" He muttered, turning to the right where half his mind insisted there _should_ be another figure. Of course, no one was there. Honestly, he couldn't imagine even who it was that was missing. "Al..." He said again, tasting the name for implication, for half-hidden memories... nothing. Whatever had been there was gone, and the name was only a name, lacking even the half-familiarity of "Edward". "Something very strange is going on here." he commented to the empty air. As he pushed himself to move forward again, Edward wondered, seriously now, just how he had come to wake alone in that pit. "Al. Whoever you are, _whatever_ you are, I promise you this." He declared the the morning sun. "I _will_ figure this out." He gave the sun a mocking salute and stalked down the road, his posture angry and a grin on his face.

Jamming his hands in his pockets, when he'd calmed down enough to notice (the sun was perfectly overhead), he'd discovered a couple of objects in the bottom. The first was a wallet, containing a few—a very few—folded bills and a couple of copper coins. Battered, cheap leather, nothing special at all. The second object was a slim, black, cloth-bound book. Stained and worn, it looked as though someone had dragged it through several mud puddles, bled on it, then thrown it around a bit for good measure. Scraps of paper and cloth made make-shift bookmarks, as well as a couple of leaves gone crisp and brittle with age. Written in a neat, awkward hand on one corner in silver ink was the name _Elric_.

Edward shoved the book back in his pocket; his hands were shaking badly, and he picked up speed into almost a run. It looked like a personal journal; it looked like _answers_. And it looked far, far, far too suspiciously perfect. On the other hand, his reasoning mind doubted, oh did it doubt. Winry had not believed him to be this person, this _Edward_. She had given him the name and the coat, but it seemed be more out of some twisted nostalgia than anything else. So whatever this book held, it couldn't be _his_ answers. These were Edward's thoughts,and it had been, in Winry's own words, "A long, long time." since she'd seen him, since he'd left that book and that jacket with her. He let out a slow breath as some of his tension eased, and slowed to a walk. Not his answers; not recent. The book didn't even _necessarily_ belong to Edward. He didn't know the man's surname, after all. The urgency drained out of him, leaving him feeling oddly spent. He trudged on wearily now, lifting his feet gingerly and bitterly regretting his brief burst of of speed. They were starting to really _hurt_.

Looking up at his surroundings as he had not while so worked up, he could see something, off in the distance. A small, tan building... and bars of metal, laid across the ground in an odd criss-cross pattern. It was a goal, at least, and he set his mind towards it, wondering just how he had managed to get anywhere at all in the mindless fog he'd begun the morning in.

When he reached the building, it was to discover it to be totally unmarked, save for a plain beige door on one side, and totally empty, if the reaction to his knocking was anything to go by. It sat beside the odd metal rails, along with a small bench painted a dark green, a little bit weathered and badly faded. Carefully, he took a seat there and looked at his feet again. Now blood and dirt had clumped on the bottoms from small cuts, and _dear god_ they felt bruised. The thought was enough to stop him cold for the millionth time that morning.

_Do I even believe in God?_ He wondered, toying with a loose strand of hair. _I don't think I do_, he decided. _I don't remember any reason to or not to, but for some reason... I don't think I did. I could now, I suppose. Would I even know?_ Edward looked up at the sky, admiring that pristine blue shade. _I don't know if I would know, for certain. I mean, on the one hand it's my thoughts, so I _ought_ to know. On the other hand, I don't think it's that easy to be certain of your own mind_. _Then again..._ he grinned, amused, _most people aren't betrayed by their own minds, the way I have been._ It surprised him to think of it as a betrayal, even more so to recognize the very real anger he felt at it. Though really, it shouldn't have been surprising; it was a wonder he had taken this long to get upset.

Fishing in his pocket, Edward pulled out the small personal journal and looked at it for a long moment. He was curious, definitely... but it felt like a violation, to look through something so obviously personal. Still, curiosity won out, and he carefully opened the front cover.

He was startled when something dropped out—on close inspection, a thin black hair elastic. Tucking it into his pocket, he looked at the inscription on the flyleaf.

_Edward_,

_You've only just learned to read and write, and already I see you love it as much as your father did. This book is a place for you to write anything you want, and I hope you will enjoy it. When I'm not around to talk to you anymore, you can write in this book, and I will still hear you. I will always love you, Edward, never forget it._

_Your loving mother, Trisha Elric_

Edward slammed the book shut with a snap. He had known it might be personal; he hadn't expected it to be so intimate! It felt horribly wrong to even be handling the book now—worse to know he had considered reading it. Carefully he tucked the small journal back into his jacket pocket, taking out the hair elastic as he did so. Without really thinking about it, he reached back and gathered his hair in a loose tail, wrapping the loop around it once. It slid down immediately, thick blond hair escaping down his back in a wave. Growling slightly with frustration, he retrieved it and re-gathered the loose strands, wrapping the elastic around a full three times this time. Now it stayed, and it was something of a relief to have the main mass of his hair out of his face. Loose bangs still hung in front of his eyes, but they seemed far less troublesome.

Smiling softly in contentment, Edward leaned back on the bench and closed his eyes. It wasn't THAT comfortable, but the sun was warm, the day was quiet, and it wasn't long at all before Edward-not-Elric was fast asleep.

AN: Another chapter; a lot of you, in reviews, have asked if this is, in fact Ed. Yes... and no. More specifically, no. You'll see what I mean, in the next few chapters.

In other news, I'm looking for a beta. None of the people I usually send stuff out too are terribly fond of Fullmetal Alchemist, so I find myself in need of someone new to proofread. Just sing out in your review if you're willing, it would be greatly appreciated.

As always, leave me a review! Longer chapters come to those who give constructive criticism!


	4. Not Winter Yet: Persephone

Chapter 3 Not Winter Yet (Persephone)

He opened his eyes on pale dusk, with a chill in the air as a small, rickety train rattled it's way up to the platform. The thing looked—and sounded—about to fall apart as a worn, scruffy man leaned out of the cab.

"You coming aboard, boy?" Edward rose slowly, working some of the stiffness out of his limbs.

"I guess so." He said, digging in his pocket for his wallet. "How much is passage?" The man laughed, not unkindly.

"This time of night, for someone like you? Don't worry about it, this is mostly a supply run anyway." The man winked and grinned broadly, and expression Edward returned tentatively. He climbed aboard the train quickly, shivering—the air had gone so cold since the sun had dropped below the trees. The passenger car was completely empty, and he took up a seat on one of the hard wooden benches all but overwhelmed by an eerie sense of deja-vu. He'd done this before, he mused, before turning to look out the window as the train rattled out of the station. He didn't particularly feel like thinking about it right now, but it was something to remember the next time he put his mind to figuring out who he'd been. Settling back, Edward did his best to get comfortable on the rock-like bench. The view out the window was a pretty one, in the twilight, but fading fast. Edward watched until the grey hills melted into black, watched until the stars began to flicker into life. _Like kindling fires_, he mused, and let the memories that sparked play out across his brain. Flickers of raw red light, hotly ripping into even the bare earth, barely dodging one sharp lounge of... _flame._ The thought resounded, ringing around him like a church-bell struck by the hammer of god, and in it's wake came of flood of images and impressions.

A tall, dark-haired man stood by the window, shadows flickering in his eyes and the corners of the room as a single candle guttered; a rush of anger, brief and elemental; cold rain running down his back and a sick, scared feeling of loss; a silver pocket-watch, dropping to smash on invisible flagstones. Edward lay back on the bench, panting in the aftereffects of that wave of emotion. It was gone as quickly as it had come, but the images remained, burned into the backs of his eyes. _That man..._ the one with dark eyes and a darker smile, who even in memory was surrounded by a halo of raw rage and a certain bitter gratitude. Even as he thought it though, the memory was fading, leaving only that pale, sad face. Edward noticed, and wondered if the person he'd been ever had, that even when he smiled the man's eyes were sad.

Slowly, Edward closed his eyes and tried to bring his breathing and his heart rate back to normal. Eventually, he sat up again, his legs pulled tightly to his body in a position of loneliness, discomfort. There ought to be someone there, he thought, to worry about that posture. There ought to be someone, who knew what it meant and knew how to deal with it, but every time he looked beside him, the train was empty. The rattling was a low hum in his bones, but couldn't quite mask the silence where another voice should be.

"Damn it." he said. The words were soft, clear, familiarly spoken, and he wondered how he had come to curse so comfortably. "He's not there." Edward said aloud, resolution and anger building in him. "He's not there—maybe he never was." The thought hurt, and he didn't know why. "Fine. I don't need your ghost!" the words were shouted to the empty train, and seemed to echo strangely in the silence. Edward felt drained, as though he'd been running for a long time and paused for breath. His chest felt tight, and the train seemed very empty indeed. Edward turned to watch the stars again, and this time tried very hard not to think as he rattled his way back towards civilization.

Edward must have fallen asleep at some point, because he awoke with bright sun streaming in the train windows as they rattled to a stop in Central Station. Slowly he pulled himself off the bench, though his limbs felt far too heavy, like someone had snuck in and replaced his bones with lead while he slept. Like a sleep-walker, Edward exited the train, stumbling over the steps and only perking up a bit when the smell of hot oil and frying food reached his nose. A stand near the tracks was selling what looked like some kind of fried bread with honey and powdered sugar, and the sweet scent was enough to make his mouth water and make him wonder when he had last eaten-- or in fact, if he had ever eaten at all.

Two minutes later, Edward sat on a bench on the edge of Main street, contentedly polishing off the last of his sticky treat. The funnel-cake gone, he licked his fingers happily. The day was cool, no longer locked in the bitter heart of winter, and the air tasted as sweet as the honey had before. Having finished off the cake, Edward carefully picked up his bare feet and inspected the bottoms. Yesterday's cuts and wear had healed cleanly, far faster than was perhaps normal, leaving tough callus which had protected the soft flesh beneath on the brief walk from the station. _Handy_, he thought calmly, poking at his foot with one short-nailed finger, _but definitely not normal_. Edward chuckled softly._ Then again, nothing about me seems to be normal. And that, _he thought, _rings perfectly true in my beautifully empty head._ Rising to his feet, Edward stumbled slightly as one leg seemed too light but caught himself with a grin. Something new had just occurred to him; _if I have no memory_, he realized, _I have nothing to hate. I have nothing to grieve for, and I have nothing to lose._ Despite the grim connotations of the thought, it brought a smile to his lips as Edward-not-Elric began his careless exploration of a Central City whose shadows danced with half-gone memories.

Edward did not make it very far. He was caught barely two blocks down the street, just before a shop selling, among other things, a sort of heavy work boots that looked cheap and comfortable. The hand that gripped his shoulder harshly, a little rough, was warm and broad beneath a plain white cotton glove. Edward spun, more gracefully than he had stood a minute ago, and was confronted with a face that instantly triggered a landslide of shadow-memories. For a moment, he was lost in them-- unable to pinpoint any specific image in a swirl of color, confused affection, and slowly growing rage. Not a moment of it flickered across his face, as Roy Mustang looked at the boy who could have stepped out of a twenty-year old photograph.

"Colonel..." Edwards voice was rough and raw, stripped to its bare bones and almost too soft to hear as he began to tremble with the force of the memories ripping lose into his mind. Finally, the storm slowed to a few flickers, a thread of flame in the back of his mind, though it remained emotion rather than any concrete image. Mustang let out a sound that could have been a laugh, were it not so painful. "You've been away a while, Fullmetal." He said, ironic and wary all at once, "I've had a bit few promotions since then."

"It was colonel, once, then?" Edward turned clear golden eyes on the too-familiar stranger before him, his voice far, far too young. His expression was open, innocent, as Roy had never seen it—emptier, too, than it had ever been. He nodded slowly, before his eyes caught on the edge of red showing at Edward's shoulder where the coat had pulled down a bit. Quickly, roughly, he pushed away the heavy material to expose the red seal.

A serpent biting it's own tail was pressed into the flesh in blood red ink, a six-pointed star inside. Edward looked down at it for a moment and, finding nothing exceptional, back up at the man before him—who was now several feet away in a fighting crouch, fingers raised to snap despite his unadorned cotton gloves. Edward didn't know why that posture should be so threatening, but he wasn't one to doubt his instincts. Automatically, he shifted to a balanced position on both feet, ready to strike or dodge at a heartbeat's notice.

"Stay back." Mustang's voice was cold now, the soldier who'd led his troops sliding into the flesh of the human man, turning it to marble. "I know what you are now." An expression curiously like longing settled over Edward's features as his posture relaxed just a hair.

"Do you now, Roy?" he asked in a voice like scales over stone. Abruptly his eyes darkened, his tone turned bitter. "That makes one of us." Only the tension around his eyes betrayed the confusion beneath. Edward had no idea what was going on, no idea what he was doing, only that this man was _danger_ and _safety_ and that he looked _much, much_ too old. The two stood silently, unblinking and unflinching as they stared at each other for a moment that stretched long.

Then suddenly, Edward relaxed. He slumped one shoulder in a casual, unthreatening pose and smiled, a soft expression that didn't look quite right on his face. "Roy." He said again. "I don't think I ever called you that, did I?" There was no doubt in his mind now that this was someone he had known, someone he had felt strongly about, though he had no idea whether it was love or hatred that haloed the memories in red.

"You never called me anything at all." The words were a growl, torn from a throat roughened by years of smoke damage. "Homunculous." One hand was inching toward the pocket of his uniform coat; one white cotton glove dropped unnoticed to the polished flags. Edward looked puzzled.

"Ho... munculous?" He tasted the word. "A being born of alchemy. A homunculous has no soul." His hands tightened, clenching into fists totally at odds with his easy posture. "But that would mean..."

Mustang moved so quickly there was no time to react, re-gloved hand coming out of his pocket and rising in a gesture, heartbreakingly familiar--

-snap-

Flames danced across the flags and leapt up before utterly shocked golden eyes, drawing the beginnings of a choked, startled cry—then flickered out, leaving their target untouched. Roy was breathing in harsh gasps, his eyes closed, holding one hand to his chest as though he'd been struck. He opened his eyes slowly, and raised them to Edward's face as though afraid of what he'd find. The boy was smirking. "Edward." Mustang spoke like a man conceding defeat.

"Bastard." The voice was warm and familiar, unchanged in the twenty years since he'd last heard it. For the first time something like hope dawned in Mustang's expression, and it was only then that Edward realized how defeated he'd looked from the very start.

"You aren't him. You're a mockery, an imitation--"

"A homunculous." Edward finished flatly. "No, no I'm not."

AN: Chapter three. I'm as surprised as you are; maybe more so. Thank my friend Amara.


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